


I'm Going to Make You Mine

by SkinSlave



Category: Let Me Make You a Martyr (2016)
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Animal Death, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, Brainwashing, Branding, Breeding, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Gaslighting, Gun Violence, Humiliation, Hunters & Hunting, Isolation, Mild Gore, Murder, Psychological Torture, Racism, Racist Language, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Stranded by an accident, a young woman finds herself in a world of blood, fear, and complex emotion, in the darkest recesses of the Louisiana swamp.TW: no heroes, non-con and dub-con, servitude, violence.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a gift for my partner 18 months ago. I am sharing it at her request.
> 
> The story, heroine, and AU in which it takes place belong exclusively to the recipient and are not available for transformative use.
> 
> Please do not request raceplay in future fics. I respect it as a kink and interest and firmly believe that it should be written by and for bipoc who enjoy it. I'm just not comfortable revisiting it myself.

There was a dinging sound in the dark, faint but getting louder. She tried to tell it to stop but the words dripped out as incoherent sounds, mush. She swallowed. It hurt. Her eyelids rose slowly.

Something round and grey with a silver insignia in the center… the steering wheel. Above it, the dashboard was lit up like fireworks. The chime was letting her know that the door was open. She reached up to pull it shut, but the handle wasn't there.

“What the fuck?” 

She could speak after all. Her head hurt, though, and her neck. She turned her torso to keep them steady. The door was gone. In its place was a wall of wood. Splinters and bark hung from it. They were rough under her fingers.

Through the fog of confusion, she could feel her pulse rising. This was all wrong in a way she couldn't yet articulate. She had to get out of the car, somehow. Her eyes darted.

The windshield was crushed and bowed inward. But it was still in one piece, more or less. The passenger door looked ok. Carefully, wincing in pain, she crawled over the console. It took several shoves to get the door open and fall to the ground outside.

Using a nearby tree for support, she stood. Her heart sank. The car was ruined, crumpled like a soda can and still dinging like a cry for help. Around her were more trees, wide swaths of mud, and a steep embankment. Deep diagonal ruts cut into it told her that the road was that way.

Something flashed in her mind. The radio had gone to static, as it often did between towns. She was searching for another station. There was a brown blur that seemed to be jumping into the car. Then the door ajar alarm in the dark.

A bit more steady, she moved to the front of the car. It was speckled with blood and tufts of tan fur. Farther ahead was the deer. It was still. Cautiously, she approached it. Maybe it wasn't dead. Maybe it would get up and bound into the brush… 

Its glassy eyes and the dark stain on the side of its face dashed that hope. She'd killed a deer. She'd totalled her car. She didn't really know where she was. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped at them and turned away.

To the right, the ravine continued toward the bayou. A long floating dock extended into the water. There was a boat tied to it. A boat meant people. People meant help. And judging from the tight throbbing in her head and the fading light, she needed help.

She half-slid down the slope, grabbing at saplings to slow her descent. Her feet dug divots out of the soggy ground. A patch of slick leaf litter sent her sprawling. She landed hard enough to rattle her teeth.

“Shit,” she muttered, pushing herself up.

The boat was right there, but there were no people on the dock. There were no people at all, no fishing gear, no tents or coolers.

“Hello?” she shouted. “Is anyone here? I need help!”

There was no answer. Tears ran down her cheeks as she turned in a circle. Scanning the treeline, she saw nothing. Frustration made the tears fall faster. She turned toward the water. There, on the other side, just above the curtain of trees and silhouetted against the sunset, was a wisp of smoke.

Excited by the prospect of a house or camp, she ran down the dock. Tentatively, she pulled the small rowboat close. It rocked and bobbed. She'd never been in a boat like that and didn't really know what she was doing. But she needed to follow that smoke. And she wasn't about to swim for fear of gators.

Somehow, she managed to get in and untie the mooring without falling into the murky water. Head pounding, she copied what she'd seen on television and slowly made her way to the opposite shore.

Getting out of the boat proved much more difficult. Her shoes and the bottom third of her leggings were soaked. She squished her way into the treeline. She could smell the wood fire now. After what felt like an hour, she broke into a clearing.

The smoke was rising from a small fire in a shallow pit. Behind it was a modest cabin, painted green with a sheet metal roof. She rushed to the door, which had a star motif burned into it.

“Hello?” she called, knocking loudly. “I'm sorry. I hit a deer. I need help. Please.”

When no answer came, she tried the door. It creaked as it swung open. The room was shadowed. She didn't see a light switch, but it didn't matter. Just enough light came through the doorway. She could make out a bed and nightstand, a gun rack on one wall, a kitchen area, cabinets. She began to search every horizontal surface for a phone.

The door squeaked and the shaft of firelight from outside disappeared. She froze, her hands on the bedside table. There was a presence in the room, but they didn't say anything. She turned around and into a masculine chest. She could see a white t-shirt and the edges of a plaid overshirt. She couldn't back up and was too startled to lift her head.

“I-I'm so s-sorry,” she stammered. “I know I shouldn't have… I just need a phone. I had an accident. Please, I just need a little help.”

A strong hand landed on her shoulder. The figure stepped back, walking her to the center of the bed. He pushed down and she sat. The man returned to the side table and lit an oil lamp. The yellow light glinted off of a mirror next to the bed and drew her eye.

Her smooth almond skin seemed sallow. She looked terrible. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, eyes red. There was a smudge of blood under her nose and a drip over her full lips. She wiped at it. A shard of glass fell out of her disheveled dark hair. 

The man knelt in front of her and set the lamp on the floor. His face was expressionless and strangely attractive, dark hair slicked back, large glasses, stunning cheekbones and no eyebrows. He sniffed and rolled his sleeves to the elbows. Raising his chin, he looked down his nose at her.

She let him move her head, humming in pain when he hit the wrong spots. He manipulated her shoulders and tested her elbow and knee joints. He felt along her throat and collarbones. It was a kind of odd physical. When he was satisfied, he stood up.

“I’m Amanda,” she offered to break the silence. “I hit a deer on the highway and ended up down by the water. I saw the smoke from your fire.”

The man said nothing. He had crossed to the kitchen area and returned with a wooden chair. He sat and leaned forward, pushing his glasses up with one finger. Amanda fidgeted and crossed her ankles. His dark eyes burned through hers.

“Do you know who I am?” His voice was gritty and soft with a subtle drawl.

She shook her head and swallowed. While he wasn't menacing, his icy calm was unnerving. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to call for help. But he'd checked her for injuries, so surely he didn't mean her any harm. She tried to smile.

“Where are you from?”

“New York. I'm just on vacation between semesters.” 

“Alone?”

“Yes…” Amanda suddenly felt ashamed, responsible somehow. “I know it's stupid to travel alone... And my cellphone shattered a few towns back. I should've gotten a replacement right away… I just didn't think this would happen...”

He sat still for another moment, then stood without a word. He put the chair back and busied himself in the kitchen. Unsure of what to do, she sat still.

“Here.”

The man held a mug out to her. She reached for it with as much a smile as she could muster. It was hot. She took the handle but he didn't let go.

“Thanks,” she said softly, and felt him release it.

It was soup of some kind and it tasted nice. It occurred to her that vomiting was a symptom of concussions. At least, that's what she thought she remembered from the first aid part of babysitting class. If she could keep food down, it was a good sign. The man knew what he was doing.

“I don't want to be any trouble,” Amanda said as he took the empty mug. “If you could call a tow truck, I'm sure I'll be alright.”

“It's too late for that,” he said. “Way too late. You'll have to stay here.”

She stood up, smoothing her long red button-down shirt against her curves. She started to protest. He had been wonderfully helpful. She appreciated his concern. But she was feeling much better. He didn't need to keep an eye on her.

He locked the door without replying. It would have been frightening, had she stopped to consider the position she was in. Instead it was merely awkward. He crossed to the bed and pulled his plaid shirt off, then his t-shirt. He was covered in tattoos and a few large scars. She turned away and walked toward the kitchen.

Without looking in his direction, she sat in the hard wooden chair. It was uncomfortable but it would do. Maybe after he'd gone to sleep, she'd lay on the floor to stretch out. It wouldn't be so bad for just one night.

“With me.”

Slowly, Amanda raised her head and looked at him. He was sitting up, under the blankets of the bed. His glasses were gone and the lamp turned down. He seemed completely at ease, as though he were asking her to have a seat while he made tea.

Maybe she was on autopilot. Maybe it just made sense in the moment. She kicked off her still-wet shoes and joined him, laying on top of the blankets. The bed was small. They were very close as they settled, but he didn't touch her.

The lamp threw shadows on the wood of the ceiling. She could hear him breathing. It was strangely calming. The mattress shifted slightly and he snuffed the lamp. She listened to the Louisiana crickets and closed her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of coffee brought Amanda back. She stretched and started to sit up. The blankets shifted smoothly against her skin. Her eyes focused on the single room, the man in the kitchen area, stoking a wood stove. She pulled the blankets back up and looked down, eyes wide.

She was dressed when she laid down. She was sure of it. But there were her shirt and leggings, folded on the floor. Had she undressed in the middle of the night? In her sleep? Surely they hadn't… No, he wouldn't take advantage after being so kind.

Checking that his back was turned, she reached down and retrieved her clothes. She struggled to dress quietly, and without pushing the covers off. Once she was decent, she got up and made the bed. It seemed like the nice thing to do. She straightened her hair in the mirror and wiped away the remaining traces of her nosebleed.

The man cleared his throat and set a mug on the table. He took one for himself and leaned against the wall. In the daylight, he was handsome in a backwoods loner kind of way. She thanked him and sat in the chair. The coffee was hot and dark. She would've liked a little cream, but she didn't dare ask. She needed to be grateful for what he gave.

“If you don't mind calling me a tow truck today, I'll be out of your hair. I can go wait by my car.”

“No.” He said the word and sipped his coffee as if it were no big deal.

“Really, I'm not hurt. I'm fine to go back by myself. I'm thankful for everything you've done. I just don't want to be a bother.”

“No.”

Amanda opened her mouth, but was wasn't sure what to say. He was watching her, emotionless. She drank the coffee, her pulse rising. What did he mean? He wasn't going to call? He couldn't? She set the empty mug down and pulled her shoes on.

“I think I'll head back to the road,” she said, smiling. “I can make it back to town before dark. Thank you again, mister…?”

“Pope.”

“Mr. Pope. Thank you. I'd better get going.”

She moved toward the door. He sidestepped, blocking her way. His body language wasn't pointedly threatening, but the movement was jarring. She took a step back. He raised what would've been an eyebrow and lowered his cup.

“No.”

The air rushed out of the room. She suddenly realized how imposing he was. He towered a foot above her. And though he wasn't particularly broad, he squared his body in a way that made him seem heavy. Her heart was pounding.

“I really need to get to the next town. My mom is expecting me to call. So I really should-”

“No, she's not,” he said, taking a step toward her. “If she were, you would've replaced your phone. You went off the road by the dock, which means your car can't be seen from the highway.”

As Pope spoke, he continued to take slow, metered steps, pushing her backwards. She lifted her hands to chest-level, as though she were preparing to push him back. She eyed his coffee, still steaming in his hand. Her back met the wall and she gasped.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” he said, planting a hand on her shoulder, “‘cause you're not gonna make me. Right?”

Amanda nodded, slowly. He gripped her shoulder just below the point of pain and guided her toward the bed. She sat, tears welling up. He finished his coffee and set the cup down.

“You have beautiful skin,” he purred, running a finger down her cheek. “But let's face it. With your… complexion… no one's gonna come looking for you. I hide out here 'cause they look for me. But you… They'll let you disappear.”

Heat rose in her. He knew the area, knew the people. Was he telling the truth? Would she just be another missing black woman, a file stuffed in a drawer somewhere? Her tears overflowed. She needed his kindness and a small voice inside told her how to get it.

Her fingers worked the buttons on her shirt. Gradually, her ample cleavage appeared, nestled in a black lace bra. She looked to him for approval. He was smirking, just barely. She shrugged the shirt off and dropped it on the floor.

“That's forward of you,” he murmured with a twinge of contempt. “What do you want?”

In spite of herself, Amanda felt a flush spread over her chest. From below, his bone structure was even more defined. He smelled like cigarette smoke and coffee. His hands, with their long fingers and broad palms, were enticing. She suddenly wanted them on her.

“I want you to... touch me,” she said hesitantly.

“No.”

Undeterred, she reached for him. He let her stroke the leg of his jeans. His head cocked as he watched. She moved toward his bulge, growing noticeably behind the denim. The zipper came down smoothly. She released his member, proud and thick.

She didn't wait for him to prompt her. She slid to the floor, wedged between him and the bed. Her pillowy lips enveloped the head of his arousal. He tasted like salt and strength. She curled her tongue around it and took it deeply. He sighed. The husky sound drew her own voice. 

Her moan was cut short by a hard thrust to the back of her throat. She backed up, against the side of the bed. The shock faded and she returned to his length, sucking gently. She raised her eyes to meet his. They were dark and intense. His lips had parted a tiny bit.

Pope's long fingers wrapped around the back of her head. She took it as a sign that he was pleased. It felt good, knowing that he enjoyed the wet pull of her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed.

They snapped open when he again plunged as deep as he could. She tried to move away but his hand in her hair was like iron. She gagged and jerked but he held her still. Just as she thought she might suffocate, he released her. She coughed and sputtered, a thread of drool connecting them.

He glared down at her with an obvious smirk. The look was electric. She felt a pang of shame. But it didn't stop her from opening wide to accept his length again.

He held her still and rolled his hips, slowly fucking her mouth. She struggled to take it without choking, gasping for breath between thrusts. He hummed in satisfaction and let her go. She turned away to gulp for air and swallow.

He let her recover for a moment and adjusted his stance. She took a moment to wipe her chin and shake the fog from her mind. She wanted him, wanted to please him, despite - or because of - the fear he inspired. It felt wrong.

He ran a finger down the side of her face in a strangely tender gesture. She looked up at him in time to receive a sharp slap. Her pained yelp didn't seem to bother him in the least. He wrapped both hands around her head and pulled her down onto his cock.

He ground into the back of her throat, then began a rough, quick rhythm. Every stroke seemed deeper than the last until her lips and nose were mashed into his pubic hair. Her jaw ached. Tears gathered in her eyes. Under the sound of her gagging was a string of baritone grunts. They grew slightly louder and he began to jerk her head forward.

With a final plunge, his hips stilled. She could feel his length swell and throb in her throat. He hissed through his teeth. His pleasure flooded her mouth. She fought to swallow, pushed against his thighs for relief. 

He let go and shoved her shoulder to knock her off-balance. She crumpled to the floor, coughing cum and spit down her chin. It dripped onto the wooden floor along with a stream of tears. Her mouth felt bruised. She made tiny strangled sounds and sobbed.

She heard Pope's zipper, the clink of the coffee mug as he retrieved it, his heavy boots moving toward the kitchen area. Through the bleariness of her tears, she watched him pour another cup from an old blue percolator. He leaned against the counter and took a sip, watching her try to salvage some dignity.

“Clean that up,” he said, as calmly as if it had never happened.

She looked down at the small pool on the floor. It had beaded up on the varnish and was flanked by evidence of her crying. She turned back to him, hoping he would toss a towel in her direction. Instead he cocked his head to one side.

“Did I stutter? I said, clean it up.”

The room went grey. Amanda could feel her heartbeat. Flushed with shame, she leaned down and dragged her tongue through the puddle. It was thick and tasted like him, like salt and leather and submission. She lapped at the floor until there was nothing left.

Seemingly satisfied, he finished his coffee, put the mug in the sink, and retrieved a black bag from the dresser. The door creaked as he opened it. He left it wide and disappeared.

It felt as though the air rushed back into her lungs. She pulled her shirt back on, buried her face in her hands and cried. She couldn't tell what shocked her more - that he had used her mouth or that she had enjoyed it. 

Surely she didn't, really. It had to be that she was just buying her safety. The moisture between her thighs wasn't her fault. She still deserved to get out, to go home.

Amanda stood and moved cautiously toward the door. He was close, within a few yards, standing under a wooden rack. A small brown animal was hanging from the rack by its back legs. Pope was doing something to it, holding it steady by its head. With a wet pop, the head came free. He tossed it to one side and shifted his grip on the large knife he was using.

Amanda backed away from the door. He hadn't looked at her, but she was sure he knew somehow. If she ran, she wouldn't get far. She watched him for a while to be sure he wasn't coming back in. He just kept working on the animal, peeling its pelt away with bloody hands.

Turning back into the cabin, Amanda took stock of its featureless walls. The only window was near the door, not a safe exit. On the opposite wall, though, were two narrow doors. One, she found, was a closet. Checking over her shoulder, she tried the second.

The door opened into a small bathroom. There, between a mirror and a shelf that held shaving supplies, was a window. It was narrow, too narrow for her curvy hips. Her heart sank. The door, however guarded, would be her best bet.

She took a moment in front of the mirror. She straightened her hair and washed her face. The eyes looking back at her were frightened. She practiced a more comfortable expression. If she wanted to get out, she needed him to leave her unguarded. That meant trusting she wouldn't run.

She returned to the main room, eyes avoiding the bed. She carefully went through the kitchen cabinets to see where things were kept. When she found the soap, she washed the morning's mugs. They fit perfectly on a shelf with two others.

She sat at the small table and watched him through the window. He seemed to have a supply of small game. As soon as he dressed one, another took its place. Eventually, he had a large tub of meat, a stack of pelts and blood to his elbows. 

He set the knife in the meat tub and brought it inside. Amanda stood up and moved against the wall, afraid to get in his way. He looked into the sink for a full second, then to the mugs on the shelf. He set the tub on the counter.

“Rinse these and bag them,” he said matter-of-factly. “Middle shelf in the fridge.”

She nodded, her eyes on his hands. Those slender fingers that had been tangled in her hair were slick with gore. The smell was sickly sweet. It made her skin tingle.

He went back outside to scrape the hides with an odd double-handled blade. She watched just long enough to understand what he was doing. Full of adrenaline, she packaged the meat as instructed and washed the tub.

Pope said nothing when he came inside, blood smeared on his face from adjusting his glasses. He washed up and changed his shirt. He made soup and didn't reply when she thanked him. He turned the lamp down and got into bed. The silence was heavy. She was almost glad when he broke it.

“With me.”

She slipped onto the bed, once again not touching. The lamp went out, leaving her with the crickets and his even breaths. She wondered if she'd wake up in a hotel or back home, and whether Pope would qualify as a nightmare or a dream. 


	3. Chapter 3

After Pope attended to the cleaned pelts from the day before, he made a second pot of coffee. Amanda joined him, sitting at the table while he stood. She was grateful for the caffeine. She hadn't slept well.

“You talk in your sleep,” he said, looking over the top of his cup.

“I'm sorry,” she said, concerned that he would be angry.

“You talk to your mother.”

He paused as though waiting for a reply. She didn't know what to say, so she nodded. He took a sip of his coffee.

“You mentioned her yesterday, when you lied about needing to call. Where's your father?”

“I… I don't know.”

His full lips curled into a sneer. He raised his cup again, then shook his head.

“Of course you don't.  _ Your type _ rarely do, I suppose.”

Amanda lowered her eyes. She should've been furious. She should've stood toe to toe with him and shouted. She should've hit him with the coffee mug and made a break for it. She should've run back to town and led the police to his doorstep.

_ Yes, officer, that's the man who held me captive and assaulted me. _

But she couldn't rally that anger. Instead she felt the heat of her embarrassment at the back of her neck. And another heat she didn't dare acknowledge.

“No wonder you got no manners. No father, no husband… I'm probably the first man who's given you any real attention.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” she admitted softly, then added, “sir.”

She looked at him to judge whether he was satisfied with her answer. He sniffed and pushed his glasses back. The way he looked at her, down the angle of his nose, made her squirm. He expected something, but she had no idea what.

With a heavy sigh, he finished his coffee and set the mug on the table. She could hear his boots on the wood floor, the rattle of his belt buckle, the slide of leather on denim. She turned slowly. He was standing in the center of the room, holding his belt. He gave a short nod toward the floor in front of him.

Amanda moved quickly, images of his bloody hands just behind her eyes. She knelt at his feet. Her hands rested on his thighs. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. He wasn't looking down, but around at the room as though bored. 

Tentatively, her fingers found his zipper and worked his manhood free. He wasn't hard. She took his member into her mouth and coaxed it to life. It thickened against her tongue. She sighed around it and sucked until it reached the back of her throat.

She took deep breaths as she worked his length, preparing for another vicious face-fuck. Instead, he took a step back, pulling out of her mouth. She stayed still as he stepped around her. A sharp push between her shoulder blades sent her falling forward.

She landed on her hands and, seemingly in the same moment, a sudden, burning pain bloomed across her ass. A loud pop and a squeal followed. She looked over her shoulder. Pope was on one knee, holding his belt in one hand, slicking his hair back with the other. The emptiness of his expression was terrifying.

He swung the belt again and Amanda slumped forward, onto her elbows. Her raised hips made a perfect target. He unleashed a torrent of blows, drawing shrieks and sobs from her chest. Tears ran freely. Her knees slipped on the wood floor and he jerked her back into place.

His free hand flipped her long shirt onto her back. He gripped her leggings and yanked them down. Her black panties were next. She panicked and lurched forward. He brought his weight down on the small of her back, pinning her flat against the floor.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he chided. “Where do you think you're going?”

Amanda whined from a puddle of her tears. She felt him move over her, straddling her legs. He pulled her hair to lift her chin and wrapped the worn leather belt around her neck, drawing it through the buckle like a leash. He tightened it just enough to smother her whimpers. 

She could feel him shifting. Her leggings moved further down, left carelessly around her ankles. He nudged her legs apart and planted a knee between them. His breath seemed louder, quicker. The hand holding the belt landed just above her shoulder. She felt him leaning over her.

“I'm gonna teach you some manners.” His whisper was hot against the back of her neck.

His fingers brushed her sex then dug deeper. She could feel them slide against her, wet and calloused. Shame at her apparent enjoyment stung her eyes. He scoffed and reached forward to wipe her arousal across her face.

“Seems you're ready to learn.”

His length settled into place. She squeezed her eyes shut. He pushed slowly but insistently, stretching her in a way she hadn't anticipated. Finally he hit bottom and seemed to stop. She let out a strangled moan. He sighed in her ear.

Now leaning on both hands, his wrists pressed against her shoulders to keep her body still. He rocked almost gently, letting her adjust to the intrusion. Unable to form words, Amanda let out a squeak at the depth of each thrust.

It felt like nothing else, firm but yielding, too large and somehow just right. This wasn't how she'd imagined it. She'd thought it would be white lace and poetry. But somehow she knew that this was how it was meant to be, giving her softness to this rough man on the floor of his cabin… the only first time she would ever have.

Seemingly satisfied with the warm-up, Pope began a harsh cadence. It was selfish, chasing his own pleasure. Still, Amanda pushed back against him, pressing her hands against the floor for leverage. She felt a tingling pressure building at her center. Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, she felt his lips on her shoulder.

“This is my house,” he grunted, accentuating every other word with a deep plunge. “You're gonna know your place. Do we understand each other?”

Starved for breath, Amanda could only manage a thin chirp. She nodded weakly. The belt tightened even more and red smudges appeared at the edges of her mind. There was a throbbing deep inside as he drove home for the last time. She felt his weight on her, his slight shudders, and the red closed in.

The light came screaming back, along with a thudding headache. She realized she was coughing. The belt had gone slack. He was gone, leaving a slick of his release seeping from her. She pulled her legs together. One hand pawed at her leggings.

She wasn't put together and her lungs were burning. But the hand at the nape of her neck didn't seem to care. It pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, half-blind, in the direction he pushed her. Something cold and hard caught her fall. The chair? 

She could only see a wall of white, no matter how hard she blinked. After several seconds, she realized she was looking at a smooth, white surface. She lifted her head, turning her face toward the shuffling of his boots.

Something warm splashed on Amanda's face. She tried to turn away, caught a glimpse of a drain and a few inches of water. A firm hand in her hair turned her back toward him. The gears clicked into place. She was kneeling over the toilet and he was pissing on her face.

She tried to protest without opening her mouth, a kind of desperate hum. He responded by moving toward her eyes, giving her just enough time to close them. She could barely breathe. Her face was hot, not only from his stream, but from the humiliation of being shoved into the toilet and used.

It ran to a trickle, then a few drops placed judiciously on her pouty lower lip. She turned into the bowl and blinked until she could see. She looked up in time to see him zip his jeans.

“Cleaning supplies are under the sink,” he rumbled, drawing out his words in a calm, southern tone.

His boots faded into the main room. The door creaked open. Alone, Amanda ran her hand along her still-exposed thigh. She was soaked and she knew not all of it was his. Some part of her felt broken and numb. The rest of her was painfully, explosively alive.

As she reached for the cabinet, still dripping, she couldn't argue his authority. It was his house.

Washing her face wasn't enough. She still smelled of him. She scrubbed the floor, and the fixtures, and the walls. She cleaned the mirror and the window. When she finally felt as though she'd done a good job, she drew a bath.

The water never really warmed up. She shivered as she slid into it. She glanced at her clothes, folded on the sink under a faded blue towel. Her eyes moved warily to the open door. She felt somehow that Pope would be angry if she closed it.

The soap, a rough-cut bar that he probably made himself, felt good on her skin. She didn't realize how grimey she felt. As she lathered the last traces of him away, her body responded to the touch. She left her hand there longer than necessary.

Amanda closed her eyes and she was on the floor, trying not to open them. Her face was crushed into the cool, hard wood. He was heavy on top of her. He smelled like coffee and sweat. It hurt in a way that made her mouth water. He didn't care if it hurt, probably hoped it did.

The water splashed as she rubbed faster, gripping the side of the tub. She was lost in the sick desire she felt when he fucked her. He fucked her. He held her down, clothes yanked out of the way, and fucked her. He insulted her, overpowered her, leashed her like a dog and fucked her.

The heat in her boiled over. A deep, animal moan escaped. She slipped two fingers inside, felt her body contract around them. She arched, nearly splashing water over the side. Her palm worked against her, pulling her through her orgasm. When it became too much, she laid back, dizzy, and tried to catch her breath.

Amanda came back to herself, to the cold bath and the smell of bleach. She sat up, still a bit cum-drunk. Her eyes moved to the sink, where her clothes and the towel were folded. On top of them was the purse she'd left in the car. A clean outfit and some toiletries had been crammed into the top.

He had crossed the water, hiked to her car and retrieved what he thought she needed. He had known she wouldn't run. Had he seen her masturbating? Watched her stroke her sex shamelessly, door open wide? Sneered at her submission or wrinkled his nose in disgust? If he had, there was nothing she could do about it.

It was his house.


	4. Chapter 4

For four days, he was silent. Amanda tried to meet his needs, cleaning meticulously and without being asked. He showed her how to dismember game, how to cook what he wanted her to cook, by doing it once while she watched, then walking away.

The quiet wore on her. Not to mention the fact that he didn't touch her. He wouldn't take a cup from her hands but waited until she set it on the table, then picked it up. When she slid into his bed, he turned away. When she looked at him, he was never looking back.

She pulled away, tried to remember that Pope was the bad guy. He hadn't helped her. He hadn't let her leave. He hadn't once asked her how she felt, what she wanted. He’d forced himself on her. He was cold. Brutal. Selfish. 

She needed to think of herself. She needed to survive.

He climbed into bed and waited. Amanda didn't come. She went into the bathroom and sat in the dark. After a few moments, he snuffed the lamp. The mattress creaked and was still. She listened intently to his breath. It was even and deep. She counted to one thousand, then two. He started to make a sound she hadn't heard before, a raspy sigh that was almost a snore.

Slowly, so slowly, she stood. She took her purse in one hand and her shoes in the other, holding them away from her body. She crept toward the door. Every step seemed to take hours. The floor, at least, was solid and didn't give her away.

The door was another story. Transferring her shoes to her other hand, she began to inch it open. It was shrill, even against the chirp of the crickets. Her heart was pounding at her temples. If he woke up, she would have to run. But his breathing didn't change.

Once the door was open wide enough, Amanda slipped outside. She continued to move quietly over the plank porch, through the dirt and grass. Only when she reached the path that led to the water did she dare to stop and put her shoes back on.

The path was sloped and crisscrossed with tree roots. She picked her way over them, listening for any sign that he was following. The longer she walked, the better she felt. She was almost there. The boat had to be just a few more yards ahead.

A tree in the center of the path stopped her short. The trail split with each fork heading in a different direction. She didn't remember this. Emboldened by her escape, she chose the path that seemed more worn. Surely that would lead to the water.

A few feet down the track, one foot stopped. She fell, landing on her wrist. Immediately she rolled over, looked back, expecting to see dark hair, wide glasses, empty eyes. He wasn't there. Something was tight around her ankle though. She felt it, a thin wire loop that felt like a blade, anchored somewhere to the right of the path.

She tried to wedge a fingernail between the wire and her skin. There wasn't enough room. She moved toward its source, hoping the slack would make the loop open. She wriggled her foot. She tried to bend the wire to snap it. Nothing helped and her toes were going numb.

Amanda realized suddenly that she was in some kind of animal trap. Pope would no doubt come to check it. Hissing in pain, she crawled toward the right, into the brush. She followed the snare line to a tree and found a heavy chain and thick steel hardware. It wasn't something she could break.

Tears rose as she cradled her sore wrist. Her only chance at making it to safety was to get out of the trap. Maybe she could figure it out in the daylight. In the meantime, she needed to hide. Pushing piles of sticks and scrub toward the trail to act as a blind, she hunkered down and tried to be still. A twig snapped. She closed her eyes.

_ Looks like I caught something. _

His voice echoed in the back of her mind, distant and hollow. She opened her eyes. The ceiling was the color of honey in the sun. Light streamed in through the open door. There was the gun rack, the side table. She turned toward the kitchen area, the last threads of some terrible dream retreating into a dull headache.

The room was quiet: no Pope, no coffee. Amanda started to sit up. A sharp, itching pain stopped her. She sighed and looked down. Her breasts were covered only by her bra. They, and her stomach, were streaked with long cuts and scratches.

Alarmed, she stood and checked the mirror. Streams and smears of blood had seeped into the waistband of her leggings. Had she tripped? Fallen? Been mauled by a fucking bear?

_ Looks like I caught something. _

His face in the thin moonlight, jaw set, as close to anger as she'd seen... His fingers in her hair, dragging her along... The skinning rack...

She looked down at her wrists. They were purple and blue, rope-burned. She traced the abrasions carefully. She was missing another fingernail.

Eyes wide, she twisted in the mirror. More cuts and gouges ran down her ribs. She touched one and winced. The sting was familiar. A thick smudge of blood stayed on her fingertip.

_ I caught something. _

The silver sound of the skinning knife coming out of the black bag... His fingers, slick with red, dipping between his full lips and coming out clean... His body pressed into her, jerking, grunting...

Amanda's hand slid into her leggings. Her sex was sticky and sore. Her thighs ached where she touched them, deep bruises. The more she stood, the more it hurt. She could smell him on her skin, copper and salt.

She almost fell onto the bed. Sitting wasn't better. Her stomach and heart were flopping around, knocking into one another. The fear, the betrayal, bubbled out as a sob. Startled by the sound, she looked toward the door.

Pope wasn't there, but he would be. She found her shirt and buttoned it with shaking hands. She stood by the old blue percolator, willing the water to boil faster. When the scent of the coffee filed the room, she sat in the wooden chair, exhausted.

His boots were heavy, coming up the porch. Amanda jumped up and poured two cups of coffee. She kept her eyes down. He took a mug and leaned against the wall, as measured and calm as every other morning. After a few sips, he set the cup back down.

“Come here.”

Trembling, she stood and walked to him. He held his arms out. She had no choice but to allow him to embrace her. He pressed her cheek to his chest and stroked her hair. The tenderness was perverse. But she needed it so badly that she melted into him and began to cry.

His arms felt good, solid and strong. She felt safe, if only because he was the most frightening thing she knew. He was warm, his shirt soft. She clung to him. He shushed her gently and waited until she calmed.

Her breath became more even and her tears stopped. With her outburst over, she expected him to release her. Instead, he leaned down and nuzzled her hair.

“If you ever do that again,” he whispered, “I'll string you up like a southern wind chime. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir,” felt like a rock in her throat but she coughed it up anyway.

Pope let her go and reached for his coffee. Stunned, she returned to her seat. He watched her, making up for lost eye contact. It was excruciating, particularly in light of the threat he'd just made. She knew, now, to expect him to follow through.

His coffee finished, he set his mug in the sink. Amanda finished hers in a gulp and moved quickly to wash them. She could hear him behind her, opening the closet and moving things. She dried the cups and put them away.

He was standing by the door when she turned around, watching her. He gestured with his chin and stepped onto the porch. She followed, though it felt wrong to skip her chores.

Outside was a simple plank table and two rusted folding chairs. Pope sat in one of them and set a brown leather case on the table. Cautiously, Amanda took the other seat. She watched as he took out a fiddle and tuned it. He seemed to feel her eyes, her confusion.

“It's Sunday,” he said, as though that explained everything.

She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. When he was satisfied with the sound of the instrument, he began to play. It was rich and resonant. He played mournful pieces, joyous pieces. After a long while he began to sing along.

Gospel. Pope was playing gospel, hymn after hymn. He sang about unconditional love and redemption, using the same tongue that cut her to the bone. Still, it was beautiful. His voice was a peach with gravel at the center, sweet and harsh in harmony. The more she listened, the more she wanted to hear.

The shadows moved as he made his way from Genesis to judgement day. He paused between songs long enough to nod her inside for lunch. While they ate, he kept the silence, then began again. He only stopped when the sky went pink.

Carefully, he put the fiddle away. He stood, stretched, and led her back inside. Amanda immediately busied herself with dinner. He stood in the doorway with a cigarette. When the light failed, he lit the lamp. 

They ate quietly. The music vibrated in her head. She watched him discreetly, the way his lips moved when he chewed, the arch of his Adam's apple, his fingers around the spoon. As terrible as he was, he was undeniably handsome, even more so than when they met.

After the evening dishes were done, Pope turned the lamp down. He shed his clothes. Sitting up in the bed, he folded his hands. His posture was patient. But the way he looked down his nose at her gave urgency to his unspoken request.

Carefully, Amanda removed her shirt, peeling the fabric away from her brutalized flesh. She folded it on the floor and topped it with her leggings. She peeled the corner of the blankets back and laid with him. She could feel his heat.

He snuffed the lamp and settled into place. The back of his hand rested against her thigh. She was raw, inside and out, and the intimacy of the gesture was magnified. She took deep breaths, soaking him in. He was wood smoke and blood. He was cruelty and quiet. 

The crickets sang. The back of his hand owned her. And she slept.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

He didn't need to wake her with a hand around her throat, throwing the blankets back. He didn't have to yank her panties down hard enough to hear the stitches strain. Maybe he didn't know that, or maybe he didn't care.

Pope shoved her legs apart and brought his weight down on her. She could feel his skin, his hair, his hardness pressed against her flesh. She was still sore and hummed at the ache in her thighs. As he settled, she felt an unhealed slice on her breast reopen.

Her yelp got his attention. He let go of her neck and raised up onto his knees. There was a line of red on his chest. He looked down at her, his lips pressed together tightly. Slowly, he rubbed at the wound, digging into it. Amanda squirmed but couldn't take her eyes off of him, his tattoos and scars.

He pursed his lips. His hand brought her blood to his face. He rubbed it between his thumb and two fingers. His mouth opened to take his thumb. She could see his tongue, just barely, curling around it. 

Slowly, he lowered his hand and rubbed his fingers over her lips. She reached for them, sucked them. His calluses were rough. They held her essence, sickly sweet and metallic.

Without taking his hand away, he guided his member into her. Her mouth went lax and she gasped. Instinctively, Amanda's legs parted wider and lifted, wrapping his slim hips. He rocked on his knees, shallow thrusts that teased at his potential.

With an obscenely slick sound, Pope drove his entire length inside. He fell onto her, balanced on his elbows. The pressure on her bruised thighs and bleeding chest was intense. She fought the reflex to push him back.

He pounded out a rough rhythm, using her body. His breath quickly became ragged. She could hear his teeth grinding.

“Whose house is this?” he growled into her shoulder.

“Your house, sir.”

Her feminine, needy intonation betrayed her. His ministrations hurt and she wanted the pain. Every thrust brought her closer to climax. And more, it was evidence that he wanted her, needed her, and would do whatever it took. His teeth grazed her neck.

“Whose slut is this?” He was breathless.

“Your slut, sir,” she moaned, wrapping her arms around him.

“Fucking slut,” he gasped over and over again, nearing his finish.

The abuse, the rub of his skin, his hot, wet breath were more than Amanda could bear. The force of her orgasm jarred a scream loose. She jerked beneath him, digging her remaining nails into his shoulder blades. Through her spasms she felt him release, shoved to the back and pulsing.

Pope groaned and pressed for a full minute, then relaxed. She held his full weight, crushing her chest. She didn't care. She was high on him, his scent, his sounds. He panted through his recovery. She stroked his padded ribs.

When he finally slid out and stood, she missed his warmth. He didn't look at her on his way to the bathroom. Through the doorway, Amanda could hear him clearing his throat and running water. She hauled her tender body to the kitchen, started the coffee and made the bed.

He didn't speak for the rest of the morning. He dressed, drank his coffee, and went outside. Amanda busied herself with the housework. She could hear the scrape of the fleshing knife as he prepped hides. It was comforting. Then another noise drew her attention.

She knew the sound of Pope's footsteps, and that wasn't it. It was a stumbling shuffle coming up the trail. Her breath hitched. She froze, one hand on the table, the other holding a sponge. Through the window, she saw the man approach.

He was short and dark. His leather jacket seemed a bit too small, his torn jeans a bit too long. He tripped over a downed branch, cursing loudly. He was a shock to see. Amanda had the impression that the world ended at the treeline. This stranger didn't belong.

She moved closer to the window. Pope hadn't stopped scraping the hide, but his shoulders were squared. His drawling voice was soft but clear.

“What do you want, Bowman?”

The man stopped several feet away. He sniffed, rubbed his face. His body language was nervous.

“Got work for you, if you still… workin’.”

“Workin’ right now,” Pope countered.

The knife was slick against the pelt he was cleaning. It seemed to make the man even more uncomfortable. He looked around, his eyes falling on the window. Could he see her? Amanda reached out and pulled the curtain closed, leaving a tiny gap. The man leaned forward, squinting.

“You get yourself a wife or something?” Bowman sounded confused.

“Something.”

“‘Bout time you got your ashes hauled.”

Pope stopped and stood up straight. He turned his head toward the cabin, but he wasn't looking at it. He was watching the man. There was a smear of blood on the bridge of his nose where he adjusted his glasses.

“I’m not gonna ask again. The fuck do you want?”

Bowman reached into his jacket. Amanda covered her mouth, not caring that her hand was wet and soapy. What if he pulled a gun? Shot Pope? Took her away to somewhere terrible? Her heart was in her throat.

But it wasn't a gun. It was a fat white envelope. He held it up.

“Need the old man put down,” he said, taking an uncertain step forward. “Can't nobody get to him, else I wouldn't be out here.”

Pope pushed his glasses back. He gripped the knife and returned to the pelt, speaking between strokes.

“If you want him down, it's gonna be three… four if you want it clean.”

“Done.”

The man dug in his pocket, counted out a wad of bills and stuffed them into the already-full envelope. He held it up again but Pope didn't stop. He swallowed and stepped sideways toward the porch. Amanda held her breath. He tossed the envelope onto one of the rusty chairs.

“By Friday,” he called out. 

Bowman's voice was loud but he was walking backwards. He didn't want to turn his back on Pope. She couldn't blame him. He tripped over the same branch, cursed, then disappeared into the wood.

Pope just kept working, so Amanda followed suit. She tried not to think about the encounter. She didn't care who the old man was or what the money had paid for. It was that moment of terror, the prospect of leaving the cabin, of being without him, of being vulnerable and alone.

She didn't expect him to come back in so early. She had finished the chores, cried and bathed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose fingernail. His boots on the porch startled her and she jumped up.

He was covered in blood, as was to be expected. He tossed the envelope on the table and went into the bathroom to wash up. Amanda walked into the kitchen area, unsure if he would want coffee or food.

He came out of the bathroom with his shirt in his hands. His tattoos glinted with errant droplets. He tossed the shirt on the floor and leaned against the wall in his usual place. A head tilt toward the chair prompted her to sit. He scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat.

“I have some business to attend to. I'll be gone tomorrow, early. Be back when it's done.” He waited for her to nod, then continued, “Where are you gonna be tomorrow?

“I’ll be here, sir.”

He nodded, then lit a cigarette. Moving to the doorway, he gestured toward the shelf that held the coffee mugs. Amanda started the percolator, happy to have a job to do, an opportunity to please him. Before it was done, he brought one of the metal chairs from the porch inside and pushed it up to the table.

For the first time since she'd arrived, Pope took the pistol from the gun rack. He brought it, and a hard plastic case, back to the table. In the late afternoon light, he cleaned the gun. Amanda sat in the wooden chair. She tried to memorize the steps in case he wanted her to do it later. Every little bit, they both sipped the coffee, black and bitter.

After coffee, after dinner, after tedious inspection, he returned the gun to the rack and the case to the closet. The oil lamp pushed the dark out and he locked the door. Amanda came out of the bathroom, her clothes already folded.

He was waiting in the center of the bed. The shorts he typically wore at night were gone, leaving his pale body exposed. His manhood was semi-hard, pointing toward his navel. His eyes were closed, his hands behind his head. He was waiting.

She dropped her clothes and climbed on to the bed, kneeling at his hip. Her hand wrapped around his length and pulled it toward her lips. Remembering the way he had used her, she took it deep. Her face was buried in his pubic hair, the scent of sweat and need. 

His member flexed in her mouth. She took a deep breath and swallowed it. She could almost feel his hands in her hair. She gagged and bobbed her head, fucking her mouth with his cock. It was harsh and delicious, her lips kissing his flesh with every plunge.

Above the sloppy sounds of her eager mouth, she could hear Pope's voice, wet sandpaper. Then his hands were on her, pulling her back. A thick ribbon of spit stretched between them and broke.

He tugged at her in a way she understood, over his legs, face to face. She moved her panties to the side. His length, more than slick enough, slid into her body perfectly. She leaned forward and ground down into him. Her chin dropped, a breathy moan breaking free.

Gradually, Amanda worked up to longer, harder strokes. She watched his face. His lips curled into a smirk, self-satisfied and superior. It was clear that, even now, he was using her to get what he wanted. Even on top of him, she was beneath him. His power was intoxicating.

His breath quickened, hissing through his teeth. She knew the signs, felt her own climax coming. She leaned on his chest, riding with a steady cadence. She found her voice.

“Please,” she moaned over the slapping of their flesh. “Please. Please.”

Pope's hands found her neck, holding, not squeezing. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.

“What do you want?” he spat from deep in his chest.

“Please,” Amanda whimpered, her eyes burning at the embarrassment of saying the words. “Please cum in me, sir.”

Those long fingers tightened, stealing her breath. She reached up and took his wrists. She held them loosely. The room began to hum and pulse. Her mouth continued to move, but the words were only audible in her head, begging for his release.

He seemed to drag it out, watching her rock and gasp. Despite, or because of, his tight grip on her throat, she burst. Her body jerked, tightening around him. She lost the rhythm and he picked up the slack, pounding into her from below. 

With a loud groan, Pope arched, lifting her into the air. His member swelled inside of her as he finished. His hands pulled her down, holding her tight to his body. Even so, his moisture seeped between them.

After several long moments, he let her go. She nearly fell off of him. Through her coughing and gasping, she heard him stretch and growl.

“Clean that up.”

The words didn't make sense in Amanda's addled mind. She blinked back tears and looked at him. He raised what would've been his eyebrows and nodded toward his feet.

Suddenly understanding, she knelt next to his hips, where she had been when she first joined him. Her tongue ran through his pubic hair, over his softening flesh,and his thighs. He tasted like the both of them. The salt and sweet and bitter washed through her.

She bathed him, then went into the bathroom to wash herself. When she returned, glowing, he had settled under the blankets. She joined him and the lamp went out. Her heart beat in time with the crickets. His fingers rested against her leg.

Maybe, she thought, that was kindness.


	6. Chapter 6

The cabin was empty when she woke up. It was a dead stillness. Pope wasn't bathing or shaving. He wasn't smoking on the porch or sharpening the fleshing blade. He wasn't checking traps. He was gone.

Amanda went through the motions. She made the coffee, sat at the table, stared at his spot on the wall. She made the bed and swept the floor. The laundry dripped dry over the tub. Everything smelled fresh and right.

But he was gone. There were no wet sounds coming in through the doorway. No footsteps or throat clearing. She sat and stared through the window at the head of the trail. He didn't come. She was alone.

Like an unsupervised child, she leaned into the possibilities. She'd lived for more than a week in relative silence and, without his looming shape, she rediscovered her voice. She hummed, then talked to herself, then belted out her favorite songs.

She dug through her purse and found her makeup. Mascara, liner, powder and paint made her feel beautiful and new. The slick of deep red lipstick was the color of Pope's hands at the end of the day. Those full lips looked absolutely kissable. Amanda touched them and tried to remember what kissing felt like.

Emboldened by her new look, she peeked into the drawers of his dresser. She inventoried the closet - old clothes, extra blankets, ammunition. It felt naughty to touch his things without permission. But what was the harm?

Stepping away from the closet, her eyes caught the front door. It seemed like a mere decoration. But it wasn't. It was wide open and she could walk through it. Her shoes tapped slowly on the floor. She touched the doorknob, then the frame.

And without thinking, she was on the porch. There was a light breeze. Birds were singing. The sun, mottled by the trees, was warm. She wandered back and forth, dragging her fingers along the chipped green paint on the cabin, toeing at the knots and joints in the porch planks.

The edge of the porch was like the edge of the world. She took her shoes off and dangled her toes into the grass. It felt good, like summer as a kid. But slowly a strange anxiety rose in her. The still-healing cuts on her body stung.

She wasn't supposed to go anywhere. He'd made himself clear. Heart pounding, she ran back into the cabin. It was safe there.

She'd finished lunch and was washing the dishes when he came up the path. She saw him from the corner of her eye. His black jeans and matching button-up shirt made him look like a different man, clean, civilized. But he moved the same, felt the same.

His boots stopped on the porch. Amanda could see him through the door. He rubbed his mouth and sighed. His eyes were on her shoes. She'd forgotten them. Her chest tightened.

“Amanda.” It was the first time he'd ever said her name and it sounded like it belonged in his mouth.

She forced herself to come to the door. He looked up and his lips parted. His head fell to one side. She realized that she hadn't washed the makeup off. He stared while her face heated up. Finally, he took a step back and nodded toward the shoes. She retrieved them and ran inside.

He followed and cut straight to the closet to retrieve a worn shoebox. He put the box on the table and leaned over it for a moment. Amanda noticed that his breath was a little hard, a little deep. He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off.

Blood on Pope's skin was normal, but the hole in his shoulder wasn't. He sat heavily in the wooden chair. His fingers pried into the wound from the front, then from behind.

“God, are you ok?”

“The fuck's it look like?” he grumbled, then sighed, “Come here.”

He opened the box and took out a sewing kit, a bottle of whiskey and a hand mirror. He gave the mirror to her, took a swig, and threaded a curved needle. She made sure he could see as he stitched himself. He tied the thread off, cut it with his teeth, and handed the needle to her.

Amanda took a shaking breath as he turned in the chair. Her hand was unsteady. The thought of causing him pain, or worse, anger, weighed on her. He didn't move. He didn't make noise. She copied his technique and pulled the edges closed. He reached around to feel her handiwork.

Suddenly, it was as though he hadn't walked in with a bullet hole in his shoulder. He stoked the wood stove and put on a pot of coffee. While he ran the water, he spoke.

“You wanna go outside?”

“No, sir.”

He put the percolator on the stove and raised his chin. One hand slicked his hair back. His muscles flexed under his tattoos.

“You wouldn't lie to me, now, would you?”

“No, sir. I-” She lost the words for a moment and he turned around, leaned against the sink. “I'm sorry, sir. I don't want to do anything you don't want.”

He nodded and wiped at the blood drying on his chest.

“Strip. Sit.”

She obeyed, folding her clothes and laying them on the table. The chair was warm against her bare thighs. Pope fiddled with the stove again.

“It would be nice if you could come out and help me with things, wouldn't it? And if you want to go out, then that's good for everyone, isn't it?,” he asked, clearing his throat. She nodded, following his meaning, and he continued. “I used to keep goats, years ago. Breeding stock. Once in a while, one would get out, go wander. If it made it across the water, someone would find it and bring it back. You know how they knew it was mine?”

Amanda hung on his voice, a precious drawl. She shook her head. He came into view, knelt next to her. He pointed to his chest, a raised red scar, the number 15. The finger tapped gently on her chest, below the collarbone.

“Do you wanna go outside?” he asked slowly.

There was only one answer. Tears welled up in her eyes. She looked down at his right hand. It held the pointed end of the fire poker. She could feel the heat of the other end. It was tipped with the number 15.

“Yes, sir,” she sobbed.

She closed her eyes, tried to steel against the pain she knew was coming. He held her shoulder to keep her still. But her screams still came. It was unbearably hot, then frozen. It smelled like burning hair and bacon. Her legs bounced and trembled.

It felt like hours before he pulled the branding iron off of her chest. He let go and stood up. She slid to the floor and wept, hoarse. It hurt so deeply, she could only think of getting away from the pain. The door was close. She could run. Well, she could try. But she wouldn't get far.

Pope let her lie on the floor. He poured the coffee and stood with his cup. She shuddered and cried until she had nothing left, then sat up. Her mascara had run down her cheeks.

“Whose brand is that?” He almost sounded bored.

“Yours, sir.”

“And if you go wander and somebody sees you, what are they gonna do?”

“Bring me back.”

He set the mug in the sink and picked her up. She stumbled with him to the bed. He laid her out and looked her over. She had broken a sweat. His fingers were gentle, examining the brand, but they stung intensely. He hooked a finger under her chin and moved her head. She panted and moaned.

“You're all right.”

Amanda closed her eyes. She heard him wash up in the bathroom, his boots on the floor, the flick of his lighter. She swallowed back a wave of nausea and let the dark close in.

His fingers on her jawline were hesitant. She hummed as she rose out of sleep, thought of a boy she'd known in school, a boy who touched her like that. Her eyes opened.

The face wasn't the boy's. It was pale, sharp, with dark eyes and lips that were almost smiling. His expression was soft. He lay by her side, turned toward her, close enough to taste his breath. It was sweet.

He thumbed at her lips. She was fuzzy, full of endorphins. Her chest hurt and she knit her brow, but his touch was more important. She kissed his thumb and gave a small smile.

Pope took her hand and put it on his chest, on the raised scar. Soon she would have one of her own, joined to him. The pain would fade. But he would always be there.

Amanda shifted toward him, parted her lips in invitation. He cupped her cheek with a calloused hand and kissed her. His mouth was tender and patient. He was asking, not taking. It was everything a first kiss should be.

She explored him with her fingers from his jaw to his navel. He didn't reciprocate until she moved his hand. She opened to him. Pope pulled himself up on his elbow, leaned over her and continued the kiss. It was almost white lace and poetry.

“Make love to me,” she whispered into his mouth.

He sat up, carefully removed the last of her clothing, and dropped his shorts to the side. The contrast of their skin was dramatic. She pulled him in close, avoiding his shoulder. He gave a deep, hungry kiss.

Amanda guided his member toward her center. He was slow and steady. He put his weight on his good arm, took care to avoid pressing on her injuries. They sighed together. She lifted her hips to meet him.

Pope was not like himself at all. He dripped kisses onto her lips. His free hand stroked her sex in a practiced way. He seemed to care about her pleasure, about her comfort, about her. She felt her urgency building and nipped at his neck.

His gentle, measured pace seemed designed to bring them both to a gradual peak. He began to sigh and hum, rolling his hips into hers for a deeper thrust. Amanda moaned and pulled him closer. He was sweat and heat and she was about to boil over.

He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “Are you close?”

She moaned an affirmation and raked her nails down his ribcage. He held a groan in the back of his throat. His thumb slicked circles against her flesh. She tried to focus on his face, his eyes, as he drove her to the brink.

For a white-hot moment, they ground together. Amanda exploded with a guttural moan. She held him deep while he joined her, milked by her body. It was as primal as it had been romantic. Pope touched her face and caught his breath before sitting up.

He took hold of her ankles and pushed her knees to her chest. He held them there until she wrapped her arms around her thighs to keep the position. Her knit brow asked why.

“Gonna clean up your bloodline,” he said flatly, moving into the bathroom to wash up. “Might take a couple generations for the kids to pass for white.”

_ Breeding stock. _

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The running water started and stopped. He padded to the doorway, not bothering to dress, and lit a cigarette. Every breath was deafening against the sounds of a distant owl and the constant crickets.

“That's enough.”

Without opening her eyes, Amanda laid flat and let him pull the blankets into place, avoiding the raw wound of the brand. She could feel his release puddling between her thighs. 

Behind her eyelids, she saw what she wanted to see. The expression on his face said that he loved her. She chose to believe it.


	7. Chapter 7

The first time he fucked her outside, her face pressed into the dirt, it was to remind her of her manners. She'd memorized most of her outdoor chores. Once the cabin was clean, she checked the traps, bludgeoned anything that was still alive, and hung the bodies for him. She split and stacked wood. She tended the small garden behind the cabin.

But she forgot, sometimes, to dispose of the offal before he instructed her to. She didn't ask for permission to use the bathroom. Maybe lunch was late or the floor wasn't swept well enough. Or she walked instead of running when he called.

Pope had been patient with her for two weeks, but she still made mistakes. She wasn't trying. It was disrespectful. And it was his house.

Amanda thought of the first time as she lay under him. He had made her undress completely. His clothed body slammed into her, the teeth of his zipper rough against her skin. He drove his member into her again and again, panting with the effort. He paused, put his full weight on her, and wiped at her face.

“You're not even crying,” he scoffed. “Must not be sorry yet. But you will be.”

He pulled out and shifted his stance. The blunt pressure of his length settled over her virgin ass. Slow was too fast as he thumbed the head in and she cried out in pain. He leaned into her, forced his way in. A merciful glob of spit did little to ease the stretch.

“Scream all you want,” he chuckled through clenched teeth. “It's just you and me.”

Amanda dug her fingers into the ground, desperate for some kind of relief.

Her sobs seemed to give him life. Pope spat again for his own comfort and began to thrust. Every stroke felt like a knife gradually slicing her open. The sun was hot and his sweat dripped onto her back. He was vicious.

A part of her knew that she deserved it. She had hurt him by not being what he needed. Despite the pain, she tilted her hips to make it easier for him to punish her. The deeper strokes left her gasping. She prayed for his forgiveness.

What he gave her was a palm on the back of her head, crushing her cheek into the mud her tears had made. She bit her lip, tasted blood. All at once his length was gone, leaving a sharp, throbbing pain. He drove deeply into her sex just as he climaxed. The pulsing of Pope's cock, like a heartbeat, was somehow comforting.

He grunted one last time, then rose up, slipping out of her filled body. She didn't wait to be prompted but rolled onto her back and lifted her legs. Being exposed like that was humiliating. Through her tears she watched him wipe blood and cum from his groin with her panties. He tossed them onto her body.

He zipped his jeans and turned around. There was a rabbit on the skinning rack. He sighed and started cutting. Amanda stayed still, closed her eyes. She thought of how gentle he could be, how generous he was. Everything he did was part of his desire for her. His commitment dripped down her ass.

“Go clean up,” he said when enough time had passed. “You're filthy.”

Slowly, she stood, gathered her clothes and limped into the cabin. She took a few minutes to wash the dirt and tears away and scrub her underwear. Her second pair was already drying, so she went without. Fresh-faced and sore, she moved toward the doorway.

Pope had stopped working. He was facing the cabin, one hand on the rack. Their eyes met and he shook his head. A moment later, Amanda heard the footsteps coming up the trail. Quickly, she moved to the window and closed the curtain. She peeked cautiously through a tiny crack.

They came, usually one a week, to buy what he gave her for free. His calm dedication and steady hand kept coffee in the cabinet and water in the pipes. She respected it, but she still hated the interruption to their life, the strangers.

He turned back to the rabbit, shucking its pelt off, as the footsteps reached the clearing. Two men and a woman, all blond, hesitated and watched him work for a moment. Her heart jumped. One person was an intrusion. Three was an onslaught. She hoped they would be frightened and leave.

Instead, they glanced at one another and continued toward the cabin. One of the men, tall and lanky, took point. He lit a cigarette.

“Heard about you. You got a reputation, man.”

When Pope didn't answer, he turned and looked at the other two. The woman shrugged and crossed her arms. He took another step forward.

“Name’s Jack… You ain't an easy man to find,” he chuckled.

The bloody man tossed the cleaned rabbit into the meat tub. He moved to the next animal in line - a raccoon with a crushed skull. The head made a squelching noise as he gripped it and began to cut.

“Cut the shit.” His voice was calm but the muscles in his shoulder were tense. “Why are you here?”

The three looked at one another as though coordinating a response. Jack ran a hand through his greasy hair.

“Fine,” he said, grinning. “That's fine… We, uh… We need your services. Got a problem, name of Eaton, works out of the packing plant up the highway.”

Pope gave him a sidelong look. His lips moved as though he was considering the request. But the way his hand rested on the rack told her he had already decided.

“No.”

Jack's jaw dropped. He shook his head incredulously.

“The fuck you mean? I got the cash, man. That's no problem.”

“No.”

“What the fuck, man?” The kid sounded impatient, arrogant. “Has he- has he been here? Has he already paid you? If he has, I'll buy the contract.”

“Did I stutter?”

Pope turned to face them. He held the skinning knife away from his body. The woman backed up a few steps. The other man stepped forward. Jack nodded slowly.

“Ok,” he said in a strained tone. “We heard you. That's fine. Yeah, fine.”

He held a hand out to the other man and backed up. Pope matched him step for step, driving them toward the path. Amanda sighed at the window. They were leaving. There was no other choice.

He watched them go and stood at the mouth of the trail for a moment. She waited for a sign that it was safe. He didn't signal to her but headed straight for the cabin. Once inside, he closed the door and washed up.

She wanted to ask what happened, why he turned down the job, why he left his work unfinished. She knew it wasn't her place. He must have felt the questions in the air.

“It’s not his time,” he rumbled, gesturing toward the coffee mugs. “Can't put a man down if he’s got time left. But they're young, stupid. They'll be back.”

Amanda put the coffee on and poured it when it was done. She could feel his eyes on her. They were wet, oily, leaving a trail on her skin. She sat and he stood, in the same way that they started any day. But this wasn't any day. That much was becoming clear.

If he was concerned, he would never tell her. He would never let it show on his face. She sipped her coffee and looked up at him. Her nervousness made her feel guilty. He had cared for her, taught her humility and gratitude, loved her. The least she could do was trust him.

Pope set his empty cup in the sink. She moved to wash it but he caught her arm. Gripping her like a vice, he walked her roughly toward the bed. He stopped just shy of it and pushed her onto the floor.

Amanda's worry melted as she focused on the belt in front of her. Her fingers worked the buckle, then the button and zipper. The rasp it made when she tugged it down made her mouth water. His length sprung free and she wasted no time. The head bounced on her full lower lip. Her tongue snaked out to catch it.

Once she had sucked it to the back of her throat, Pope came to life. His hand settled at the back of her head. She took a deep breath in time for his first thrust. He drove it as deeply as it would go, pressing her face into the salt and sweat of his flesh.

The gulping and gagging sounds she made with each stroke drew his own voice from his chest. He groaned like a gravel truck. She lifted her hands to his hips, helped him gain momentum as he fucked her mouth.

Pope pulled out suddenly and took a step back. Amanda looked up at him, a sheen of spit dripping down her chin, the mark of the effort she made to please him. His hand met her cheek hard, whipping her head to the side. She cried at the force of it. His voice didn't match.

“Now, go get pretty for me,” he purred. “Put that lipstick on nice and thick and come back and kiss me.”

She stumbled to her feet and lurched into the bathroom. A quick scrub of her face set the stage. She put on her makeup as quickly as she could without sacrificing the look he wanted. She applied and reapplied the dark red lipstick. Satisfied, she returned to the main room.

Still standing but stripped to the skin, Pope gestured toward the bed. She kicked her shoes off and crawled onto the mattress. It creaked as he pushed and pulled her into the position he wanted: on her back with her head hanging over the edge.

He gently touched her mouth. Amanda's lips parted at the sensual touch and he shoved three fingers between her teeth, wedging them open. His cock followed, sliding effortlessly into her throat. She could feel her lipstick smearing along the length and into his pubic hair.

His hand on her neck rippled as his member moved beneath it. He gave a few deep thrusts, then backed up to let her gasp for breath. Her hands fisted into the blankets. She lapped at the shaft as it moved, wet pink muscle peeking out from behind satiny red lips.

Breaths came fewer and farther between as Pope used her mouth to bring himself close. His free hand groped at her breasts. She arched a bit, presented them. His raspy breath rose to a series of rough grunts.

Amanda knew his signs and coaxed him over the edge by working her throat. He gave her something to swallow, pumped his release into her. His length pulled back slowly. It dripped into her mouth. She took it hungrily, his flavor thick on her tongue.

As she recovered, she felt his fingers on her cheek. He was trying to still his breath. She rolled and lifted her head. There was a strange look on his face.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Stay right here.”

He waited until she nodded, then unloaded the gun rack onto the table. His shoulders and back rippled as he cleaned the pistol, then the rifle. Amanda wished she could help. But she did what he needed, what he asked. She stayed.


	8. Chapter 8

The guns, cleaned and loaded, were returned to the rack. The task had taken long enough that Pope seemed recovered. He stood against the wall for a moment and pushed his glasses up. His bottom lip rose as though appraising her.

Amanda rose up onto her knees and began to unbutton her shirt. The red fabric fell open and revealed the black lace bra, full to overflowing. She slipped out of both and dropped them over the side of the bed. Her leggings followed.

Nodding in approval, he folded his glasses and set them on the side table. She moved to give him space as he slid onto the mattress. He stared for a moment longer, then cleared his throat and leaned back.

His partial erection was a compliment. She took it between her lips and sucked. It hardened quickly, another compliment. He rolled his hips into her, teased the back of her tongue, then pushed her away.

Firm hands pushed her onto her back and arranged her arms in a way that held her cleavage in place. Pope straddled her stomach and pressed his length between her breasts. The glistening pink head popped out under her chin as he rocked forward. Smiling at this new development, Amanda pressed tightly to give him as much friction as possible.

His eyes were on the thick pillows that enveloped his cock. He pushed against them, longer thrusts each time. Soon her tongue could just touch the tip at the deepest part of the stroke. She reached for it and he sighed at the contact.

Suddenly, he was gone, sliding down her body and kneeing her thighs apart. He leaned on one hand. The other rubbed over Amanda's sex, spreading the moisture that had gathered there. He swiped his fingers across her lips and kissed her, sharing the taste.

Pope's tongue swirled against hers as his hips settled into place. His member sank to the hilt. She moaned softly into his mouth. He set a slow and sensual pace. Every few strokes, he paused, pressing into her, as though savouring her tight, wet warmth.

Despite frequent pauses and a careful rhythm, his breath became urgent. He layered tiny nipping kisses over her shoulder and buried his face in her neck. Amanda pulled him in, moaning freely. Every plunge brought her closer to climax until she was teetering on the edge.

He must have reached a point of no return. His thrusts became harder, quicker. His lustful sighs became throaty grunts. He leaned back, looked her in the face. The sight of Pope, tattoos and intense eyes, hissing through his teeth as he brought himself off, was enough for her. She came around him, clenching and squealing. 

He followed. His body trembled while he filled her. It took her breath away, the throbbing heat, his rumbling groan in her ear. Her ankles locked at the small of his back and kept him in place. He slotted his mouth with hers. He tasted like freedom.

When he got up, she adjusted her posture and lifted her legs. Whatever was coming, he still made the time to enjoy her and to breed her. Whatever was coming, he intended to keep her. He always intended to keep her.

Pope put himself together. He didn't bother with the plaid button-down and his sleeveless undershirt hid nothing. He wouldn't have looked out of place in a prison yard. The tattoos and scars that marked his body screamed danger like the markings on a snake.

He opened the closet and began to rearrange its contents. Several times, he stopped and cocked his head as though listening. Amanda held her breath until he continued. Finally satisfied, he turned back to her.

“Good girl.” The words were cinnamon and honey and her heart skipped a beat when she heard them. “Get dressed. It won't be long now.”

She obeyed with a silly smile on her face. She couldn't help it. She was a good girl, his good girl. It was the best thing she'd ever been. His hand on her shoulder interrupted her joy.

“When I tell you,” he drawled softly, pointing at a corner of the closet, “you get down right here. You don't speak. You don't move. You listen for the last gunshot, and then for my voice. You don't hear my voice, it's not me. Understood?”

She nodded and he retrieved a game knife from the dresser. He put it in her hand and adjusted her grip.

“Anybody else opens the door, you use this. Forget the ankles, this won't go through a boot. You slice behind the knee. That's the popliteal artery. Femoral is in the thigh, right next to the groin. You hit one of those, he's down. You can't get through his clothes, you cry. Ok? You cry and you tell him you're scared and you palm this,” he turned the knife so it was hidden against her wrist. “You don't give it to him. And you don't let him take you. You stay  _ right here. _ And I'll be back.”

Amanda swallowed her fear. She believed him. He would be back. She looked down at the knife in her hand. He crossed to the window and peeked through the curtain. One hand slicked his hair back.

“Go on.”

Heart pounding, she climbed into the space in the closet. Once the door was pulled closed, it was dark and muffled. Still, she could hear his boots on the floor. He took the guns from the rack and left.

Alone in the dark, she listened to the sound of her breath. There was a crack in the distance, then another and another. Then a scream. It wasn't Pope and, she realized, that was all that mattered to her.

When the shots stopped, Amanda hoped it was over. Scrambling footsteps dashed that hope. There were panicked whispers, too low to make out. Someone crawled on the floor toward the closet door.

“I told you not to fucking come! What did I fucking say?” A man, not Jack. He sounded scared. Good.

“How was I supposed to know you couldn't do the job?” A woman, hissing, angry.

He shushed her and they went silent. One of them, the woman, slid to the side, under the bed. There was a heavy clunk that made Amanda smile. Pope was on the porch. She leaned her ear against the door.

“Let’s cut the shit,” he called out. “I know you're there. Step out and I'll make it quick.”

“Fuck you, man! My brothers are out there about to blow your fucking head off!”

“Is that right?”

There was a moment of panting quiet. Pope turned and left, his boots leaving an audible trail toward the treeline. She adjusted her grip on the knife.

“Stay here till it's done,” the man whispered. “Hide or something.”

The door rattled. Amanda tensed. She pictured the man with blond hair and angry eyes. He had a gun in his hand. Her fear made her palm sweat.

The door opened, but it wasn't a bad man with a gun. It was a girl in a pink t-shirt that was splattered with blood. Her mascara had dripped down her cheeks. She stepped back, out of reach, and knelt on the floor.

“Shit… Are you ok? What’re you doing here?”

Amanda sniffled. She hadn't cut the girl, had lost the element of surprise. She had to cry.

“Please,” she whimpered. “I'm so scared.”

“How long you been here?”

She had to think a moment. How long had it been? Years? Decades? The last date she remembered was May 25th, so that's what she said.

“Fuck. That's, like, over a month. He kidnap you or something? That bastard. Fuck,” she sighed.

Her hand reached for Amanda's arm. She flinched and the girl cooed at her.

“It's ok. I'm Sarah. I'm gonna get you out of here. It's over. He ain't gonna hurt you any more. Sick fuck probably… Did he… rape you? Beat you up?”

She nodded slowly. That was what he did, wasn't it? Hearing the words was uncomfortable. A fog rolled into her mind.

“Listen, I been hurt too. Ok? I know how you feel. But we can't stay here. We gotta go help make sure he don't hurt nobody ever again. Ok?”

Without realizing it, Amanda had allowed the girl to pull her to her feet. She stumbled out of the closet. In the woods, she could hear the crashing of feet that didn't know the trails. There was a volley of shots, then the hum of low voices.

Sarah led the way. They stepped over three bodies as they followed the sound. One of them was Jack. He had a snare wire wrapped around his neck and his head was almost severed. The others were shot. She'd never seen a dead person before.

The group were standing halfway down a ravine west of the cabin. Pope was standing between two men. He was red and some of it was his. The empty rifle lay at his feet. The men each had a pistol trained on him.

“The fuck is that?” one man shouted, glancing toward the women.

“This psycho had her locked up. God knows what he did to her… I say we let her put him down.”

“Fuck her. You see Jack?”

Amanda was only partly listening. She had tucked the knife into her wrist like he'd shown her. Now she made her way toward the loud man. Pope's head didn't turn but she could feel his gaze. It was cold.

“Jesus,” the man muttered. “Is that a fucking brand?”

He reached for her and she reacted. Three steps closed the gap between them. The knife flicked out, found the seam in his jeans, right next to the groin, slid in just beside it. It was easier than she expected. He doubled over and pawed at the knife. The gun hit the ground.

From the corner of her eye, Amanda could see Pope rush the other man. She focused on the gun. The handle was pointed toward her. It was too big for her hands, but she gripped it as best as she could. The man was on the ground. He looked bad.

She pulled the trigger anyway.

Sarah screamed over the sound of a pistol. She crumpled and was gone. And it was just the two of them again. Pope moved slowly. There was a hole in his leg. Half of his shirt was drenched. He pushed his glasses up, leaving a familiar smear on the bridge of his nose.

Her heart was throwing itself against her ribs as if it planned to escape. There was no air, no matter how hard she breathed. He was walking toward her.

Him. The man who had kept her hostage. The man who had kept her. The man who had given her so much pain. The man who had given her so much. The man who had made her fear for her life. The man who had made her.

The gun pushed back against her thumbs. It was centered on Pope's chest. He didn't reach for it. He sidestepped, so slightly, so slowly, to place the sight over his heart. She could finish it. He wasn't going to stop her.

Hands shaking, Amanda lowered the gun. She gripped the barrel and held it out. He took it from her hand. Something like a smile spread out over his face, then washed out.

“Come here,” he said in his gritty Southern voice.

The sky was going pink and the crickets were coming out. He held her, buried his nose in her hair. She could feel his leg shaking. They'd need to sew that up. Then maybe they'd slip into bed, his fingers just barely touching her thigh, and she'd be his.


End file.
